at, for a moment, I forgot why I had come upstairs.
Which, admittedly, was to snoop.
My mother had been alone for 11 years, and now she moved through the house like someone had switched the lights back on.
THE REASON WAS RICHARD.
He was 52, apparently lived alone, and had met Mom through the community gardening club after complimenting her tomato plants.
Within a month, he was showing up with sunflowers.
Within two months, he had fixed her porch railing without being asked.
He even remembered that my 15-year-old daughter, Chloe, loved mint chocolate chip ice cream and often brought her a pint.
After a few months, Mom seemed like a version of herself I thought we had lost when Dad died.
She bought the red dress.
She started wearing perfume again.
Sometimes she smiled at her phone like a teenager.
I wanted to like Richard.
I really did.
“So, what time is he coming?” I asked.
“Five. And he’ll need to leave by 7:30 p.m. again, so let’s eat by six.”
I stopped halfway toward the stairs.
“Seven-thirty again?”
“Avery.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
Downstairs, Chloe was arranging the table with Mom’s good plates, the ones she only brought out when company came over.
My daughter had her grandmother’s cheekbones, her father’s stubborn chin, and lately she’d been observing Richard with growing suspicion.
“Cinderella’s coming to dinner,” Chloe announced as she folded a napkin into something that only vaguely resembled a swan.
“Be nice.”
“I’m being nice. I’m just saying. The man runs on a Cinderella schedule.”
“Chloe.”
